


where your book begins

by effanineffableplans (Dawn_Blossom)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's a demon with a theory about the ineffable plan, Crowley's an angel who knows how close he was to falling, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), God's a writer basically, M/M, Role Reversal, and Adam continues to be the antichrist, and if you haven't read the book you might not catch when i'm referencing it, but i haven't seen the show, technically 'neither' book nor show canon - it's a role reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 06:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19388068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn_Blossom/pseuds/effanineffableplans
Summary: Angels and demons aren't that different, actually.(The six thousand year love story between the angel Crowley and the demon Aziraphale.)





	where your book begins

**Author's Note:**

> "I'm going to stop writing Good Omens fic now," I said, and then I _didn't._
> 
> Anyway, I know everyone probably has an Aziraphale/Crowley roleswap au in at least their head, but I have this really irritating character trait where I always want things done MY way, and well... I felt inspired, so I wrote something.
> 
> Title is from [Unwritten](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7k0a5hYnSI) by Natasha Bedingfield, because sometimes a song you haven't listened to in years just randomly slaps you in the face mid-wip to remind you it has the perfect lyrics for what you're writing.

Coriel hadn’t _chosen_ Heaven; it was just the default for him. It was the default for _everyone_ until suddenly half the angels he had known were no longer there. Fallen. Gone.

He thought the whole thing slightly unfair. All the Fallen Angels had done was ask questions. It wasn’t as though _he_ didn’t have questions too. It’s just that he figured there was nothing he could do about it. If God didn’t want to tell them anything, She wouldn’t, and it wasn’t like anyone had the means to force Her to.

But Lucifer had tried, and it hadn’t gone very well. Coriel was privately terrified, because he had on multiple occasions found Lucifer interesting, compelling, and dare he say it, a little inspiring. He just never had the chance to say that to anyone. And he certainly never would _now,_ but God had to know anyway, right? She knew everything, so She must have known that deep inside, he was really just as bad as those who had Fallen. She must have known that even as all the other angels in Heaven were converting their anger and pain into hatred for those they now call _demons,_ Coriel could only marvel at the water forming in his eyes and wonder what was so terrible about the Fallen that God decided to make them all go away.

He expected that he himself would Fall, that maybe She just hadn’t gotten around to punishing everyone yet. But time went on, and in Heaven he remained. He just didn’t know why.

That was the worst part of it all. Why him? What made him any different? But there were no answers in Heaven. Only the ineffable Plan. So he clung to it, and hoped that there was a happy ending written somewhere he couldn’t see.

* * *

Other angels simply could not accept that there were no answers. And that was their downfall.

Aziraphale did not think himself particularly vengeful. It wasn’t that he hated God; he just thought She would probably answer most of his questions if only someone bothered to press Her. He wouldn’t have done it himself, of course. But Lucifer seemed ready to do it, and it was terribly fascinating to discuss the questions they had. There were others there, too. It was like a discussion group for curious angels, and Aziraphale enjoyed it tremendously. Then, suddenly, there was a war, and angels were dying, and Aziraphale realized that he might not have been on quite the same page as the rest of his friends.

He bore no ill will towards God. He Fell anyway. It was the betrayal that hurt worst of all, and that was when he realized that he must be onto something, after all. Why should he and his fellows be kicked out just for questioning? What kind of threat did that pose?

And then he thought further. What if God wouldn’t give them answers… because She _couldn’t?_ What if Her amazing ineffable Plan wasn’t all planned out like it was supposed to be?

And if he was right, what did that mean for the newly created Hell?

* * *

“Oh, my, I didn’t see _that_ coming,” said the demon known as Zira. He’d used to be called Aziraphale, but after the Fall, the other demons had all taken new names, and Lucifer—no, it was Satan now; he’d been quite insistent—had glared at him when he’d asked if he really had to change his as well.

“It went down like a lead balloon,” said the angel known as Coriel, for now. He wasn’t sure he should be talking to the demon who had caused all this trouble in the first place, but he wasn’t entirely ready to head back to Heaven just yet, not when he’d so clearly failed his duty. “It seemed a little harsh, didn’t it? I mean, first offense and everything. They’ve only ever known the garden, and now they’re being forced into a dangerous world. Even we—I mean angels; I don’t know about you—don’t know much about what else is out there. And Eve’s expecting a baby, and they both look so miserable _already_ and the storm hasn’t even started yet!”

“Yes, well.” Zira tilted his head. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What?” Coriel did not care for Zira’s tone. It made him feel like he’d disappointed the demon.

“You’re an angel,” Zira said. “I’m sure there’s something you could do. Don’t you have a flaming sword?”

“Er, yes,” Coriel said, and it materialized.

“You could give it to them,” Zira said. “They would have something to defend themselves with, and something to keep them warm.”

“Oh…” Coriel frowned at his sword. It sounded like a good idea, but it was coming from a demon. Would listening to Zira make him Fall? God gave Coriel this sword, and She could have given one to Adam and Eve if She had wanted to. But She had never prohibited the angels from interacting with the humans. She had never prohibited them from giving away their swords, like She had so clearly prohibited Adam and Eve from eating the forbidden fruit.

“Are you worried you’ll do something bad?” Zira asked. His voice was kind. “My dear, I don’t think you’re capable of being Evil.”

“Er, but—” The problem was that Coriel didn’t think that demons had been Evil until _after_ they had Fallen. Falling was sort of how you distinguished between Good and Evil.

Zira smiled and patted Coriel on the shoulder. And then, an instant later, the sword was in his hands.

“Hey!” Coriel exclaimed. “You— You snake!”

“Oh, indeed,” Zira said pleasantly. “Why, I’m making such a mess of things, aren’t I? Those poor dears would have remained blissful fools if I hadn’t tricked them into eating that horrible fruit. And now I’m about to give them an angel’s sword. I wonder what they’ll do with it.”

Zira held the sword loosely in his hand, and the trouble was, Coriel was sure he could have taken it back. Asked for it back, even. There was no malice in Zira’s silver, serpentine eyes.

“You’re a funny demon, Zira,” Coriel said. He was afraid to say more, lest he get funny ideas in his head.

* * *

And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, _saying_ Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee?

And the Angel said, You see, the thing is, it was stolen from me, and, er, I’m sorry.

And only half of the Angel’s statement was a lie.

* * *

When the angel and demon met again, it was on Earth. They had each been sent to influence the humans, and each knew that out there somewhere their enemy was trying to do the same. They just hadn’t realized until that moment that they had already met said enemy.

“Oh, now this is a surprise,” the demon spoke first. “Coriel, it’s been ages.”

“Er, actually,” the angel said. “I’m going by Crowley now. It just feels better, you know?”

The demon’s eyes glittered with something, and Crowley thought maybe he’d better explain.

“I know Coriel’s my God-given name and all, but look, the way I see it, it’s just a gift,” he said. “And once you get a gift, it’s yours to do whatever you want with, And it’s not like I hate the name. It’s got some good letters in it. I sure do like that hard c, and there’s nothing wrong with a good r. Don’t like that it _ends_ on an l, but it’s a great letter, and I— I just think I’m more of a Crowley.”

“It’s a fine name,” the demon said. “Why, I’d say you’re quite right in your reasoning, too. Her names are gifts.”

“It just makes sense.” Crowley grinned. This conversation was going a lot better than when he’d had it with Gabriel.

“She can take away what is Hers, but even She cannot take what belongs to us,” the demon said quietly. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. “My dear, would you call me Aziraphale?”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley echoed. It was an angelic name, bestowed by God. But it belonged now to the demon in front of him. Besides the shape of Aziraphale’s eyes, he really looked the same as any ethereal being. “Yeah. It suits you.”

Aziraphale beamed. He didn’t seem at all Evil, and it wasn’t until after they had already parted ways that Crowley remembered they were supposed to be enemies.

* * *

Even watching Aziraphale work didn’t fill Crowley with any particular sense of unease.

“Oh, but my dear girl,” the demon said. “You must know you’re worth ten of him. You don’t really think marriage is supposed to be about suffering, do you?”

“No,” the woman beside him whispered. “No, this isn’t what I thought…”

Crowley didn’t think the woman’s marriage was going right, either. It was her husband, really, who was missing the point. Husbands and wives were supposed to support each other. But in this case, the man seemed to think his wife was obligated to support everything he did, including cheating on her.

“Sometimes you have to think about yourself,” Aziraphale said. “This isn’t how you want to live your life. You’d be so much better off without him. You know how to make your own decisions. That foul man doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near you.”

“No…” the woman said, her voice growing stronger. “No, he doesn’t.”

The fire in her eyes reminded Crowley of the sword he used to wield, and… Oh.

“Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said, miracling enough space between Aziraphale and the neighboring wall for him to stand. The human didn’t notice, but Aziraphale did.

“Oh... Crowley,” Aziraphale greeted. “I thought you had already left town.”

“No. I knew _you_ hadn’t,” Crowley said. Turning to the woman, he continued. “I heard my— Er, my friend— Aziraphale here was giving you some sound advice about the nature of marriage.”

“Aye,” the woman said. “Some very sound advice.”

“Yes, er, well,” Crowley said. “I have some experience with the subject myself, and I just thought I should say that, well…” He took a breath. “Just because you aren’t happy today doesn’t mean you’ll be unhappy forever. You should think about those you truly care for, and who care for you. You know deep down what you really want.”

He knew his words affected her, because he could feel it. The spark of love was as obvious to his senses as an elephant would be to anyone with sight.

“Ah, boo,” Aziraphale said after the woman had thanked them and left. “I would have had her putting a knife in her husband’s heart next week if you hadn’t intervened.”

“Murder is frowned upon in Heaven,” Crowley said. “The murder of good Christians is, anyway.”

“And you think that man qualifies as a good Christian?” Aziraphale asked incredulously.

Crowley made a face.

“Look at it this way,” he said. “If they both went to Hell, they might have to share a room.”

“Oh, that would be a shame,” Aziraphale conceded.

A week later, the woman ran away in the night, taking her two children with her. Both Crowley and Aziraphale reported the incident to their superiors as a successful job.

* * *

It was 1020 when Crowley realized that the _vast majority_ of successes he was reporting to Heaven were also getting reported as successes to Hell by Aziraphale. The truly powerful acts of good and evil, the acts that surely could not be ambiguously both, were always caused by humans alone.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Are you just now figuring this out?”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you,” Crowley said crossly.

“I do not,” Aziraphale huffed. “I just thought you knew already. When you called me your friend…”

“I had to explain why I was walking up to you! People don’t just do that to strangers!” Crowley insisted. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said.

“But, er, it’s not that you’re _not_ like a friend,” Crowley continued quickly. “It’s just that angels can’t— You know, it would be a problem if— Friends can get you in trouble, that’s all.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale said. “I just didn’t realize that after all these years, you were still so afraid of being _bad._ ”

“I—” Crowley sputtered. “That’s— That’s not what this is about!”

“Let’s look at it from a human perspective,” Aziraphale said. “When a human is good or bad, it’s because they want to be. People can’t become truly holy without the opportunity to be definitively wicked.”

“Yeah…” Crowley said cautiously. Something felt a little off about that statement, but it would probably take him a few years to figure out what it was. “Yeah, okay, they can pick. That’s why we’re supposed to influence them.”

“But you and I are different,” Aziraphale said. “We’re Good and Evil by default. We didn’t get to choose, really. And that’s why nothing we do ever comes close to what humans manage. Our jobs are just jobs. Good and Evil are nouns for us, not adjectives. We don’t get to _be_ them.”

“Then— Then what are we?” Crowley asked. 

“We’re friends,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “Friends who work for different employers.”

Crowley stared. Aziraphale looked kind and gentle. He always looked that way. You would never know he could talk a peace-loving man into arson unless you saw it with your own eyes. 

“You’re giving me a headache,” he muttered.

“Nothing a good drink won’t cure, surely,” Aziraphale said. He offered Crowley his hand. “My treat.”

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley agreed. “One drink.”

It was amazing how long “one drink” could last when the parties are capable of both refilling their glasses at will and instantly sobering themselves up. In a decision Crowley would later pretend they made wasted, they formed a mutual agreement that would come to be called the Arrangement.

An agreement between an angel and a demon should have changed everything. Funny how it didn’t change _anything._

* * *

It was 1439 or so, and Aziraphale had specifically sent a letter requesting that Crowley meet him in the Holy Roman Empire.

“Look, Crowley! Moveable type!” was the first thing the angel had exclaimed. “This is going to catch Europe up with the printers in the East! Isn’t that exciting?”

“Haven’t been out of Europe in a while, so I don’t know,” Crowley said. It was too depressing to leave for long. It was all “convert the nonbelievers!” and “take everything for the Church!” and even though the humans thought of these ideas on their own, it made Crowley feel like his side was really fucking up somewhere. Those thoughts never led to good places.

“Well, I think it’s quite the achievement,” Aziraphale said. “It will be good for both of us. I hear he wants to print the Bible, you know.”

“Yikes,” Crowley said.

“Oh, don’t be like that, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a laugh. “That won’t give us any more trouble than we already have. But just think of what else they’ll be able to print! Imagine how quickly ideas will spread!”

“We’ll have to make some changes if we want to keep up,” Crowley said. The sight of an excited demon would terrify anyone in Heaven, but Crowley felt nothing but a bone-deep fondness for Aziraphale. It might have been an error in his corporation. Bones weren’t supposed to feel things.

“Maybe we should get into the writing business,” Aziraphale said. 

“That sounds like a lot of effort,” Crowley said. “And the humans will just have to make their own decision about our works, anyway. Better leave the writing to them in the first place.”

“Ah, you make a good point,” Aziraphale said. He continued under his breath. “I wonder if She has one of these, too…”

“What was that?” Crowley asked.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Aziraphale said. “Care to join me for dinner? I do believe it’s your turn to pay.”

“My turn?” Crowley repeated. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t even be in this country if not for your frantic letter! The way you wrote, you’d have thought the humans had figured out how to perform miracles of their own! You owe me!”

“I’m just happy for Johannes!” Aziraphale said. “I couldn’t keep it to myself. Oh, but alright, I’ll pay for you. You never indulge as much as I do; you’re not afraid of gluttony, are you? I’ve been here for a while; I know this great place that makes such wonderful pea soup, and oh, you’re going to _love_ their almond bread pudding.”

Crowley did in fact love the almond bread pudding, but ultimately he let Aziraphale eat half of it because the demon loved it more.

Or at least, the demon _liked_ it more. Now that was almost a dangerous thought. _Do demons feel love?_ The common consensus among angels was that they didn’t, and probably couldn’t. But God Herself hadn’t told them that…

“I brought wine. From France,” Crowley said, not wanting to take those thoughts any further. “Where are you staying?”

“It’s no castle, but I’ll show you,” Aziraphale said brightly.

* * *

Crowley got a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition. He didn’t believe for a second that his superiors actually knew what that _was._ All they heard was that everyone was supposed to be converting to Catholicism, and then it was all “Good job, Coriel” and “Guess it was a good idea to put you down there after all.” They didn’t even _know_ what was happening.

Hell did, though. 

“It doesn’t feel right, does it?” asked Aziraphale, who had also received a commendation for the currently ongoing inquisition. He hadn’t even been in the country when it started. “Seeing them hurt each other like this. I like free will, really, I do, but it just seems so…” 

If any other angels had ever wondered whether demons could cry, Crowley could tell them now. Pain looked hideous on Aziraphale’s too-soft face.

“I know, I know,” Crowley said. If he hadn’t spent the past week crying while drunk, tears would probably be running down his face too. It was only Aziraphale’s arrival in Spain that raised his spirits even slightly.

“Do they really know what they’re choosing?” Aziraphale asked. “They think they’re doing the right thing. They always, always do. And then you look around and everyone’s fighting and you don’t even understand how you got there.”

“What is the right thing, anyway?” Crowley asked. He was the right amount of drunk to entertain such a question, because he wouldn’t have to remember it in the morning if he didn’t want to. “It can’t be the same thing as the Good thing because— Because my side keeps claiming things that really aren’t right. The Inquisition, the Crusades, the Flood, the—”

He couldn’t say the Fall. Not out loud. He still couldn’t tell what separated him from the Fallen. Thousands of years of knowing Aziraphale only made it even harder.

“I really didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Aziraphale said, like he already knew what Crowley was thinking. “I didn’t know anything about free will back then. It was only afterwards that I thought, that I realized, the ineffable Plan is just…”

But Crowley would not learn about the ineffable Plan just then, because Aziraphale broke off into a choked laugh.

“It’s really not fair,” he said. “I didn’t stop loving Her. I just had questions. We all did. We all still do. Because even though we’re Fallen, we’re still… I’m still…”

 _Did it hurt?_ Crowley thought, because humans had a saying that went this way. _When you fell from heaven? Because you must be an…_

“Angel,” he said softly, but it sounded like a name. “Of course you are.”

They didn’t talk about that night again. But to be fair, they didn’t talk about the Spanish Inquisition again, either.

* * *

“I don’t see how they pinned the Salem Witch Trials on us when neither of us were anywhere near the New World,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Because nobody Above or Below can believe that could happen on its own,” Crowley muttered. 

“Yes, they’re quite terrible at listening to us,” Aziraphale said. “But oh, this is just like that dancing mania that went around back in the day. What was it, St. Vitus’s Dance?”

“Yeah. Or St. John’s,” Crowley said. “I got credit for it because humans mistakenly believed it was a Saint’s curse. Got people to convert, or something. I don’t know what Gabriel thinks I’m doing down here, though, because angels don’t dance.”

“You could hardly call it dancing,” Aziraphale said. “Poor things were out of their minds. You should read some of the records about it. I have some books I could lend you—”

“Nooo,” Crowley groaned. “I hate nonfiction.”

“Well, you have to do _something_ while this ship takes us to the Colonies,” Aziraphale said. “And I’m afraid I didn’t bring my collection of fiction.”

“What I’m going to do,” Crowley said, “is pray night and day that this damn boat gets us there in one piece.”

“My dear, you’ll die of boredom before we’re halfway there,” Aziraphale said. 

“Yeah, well what are _you_ going to do?” Crowley asked. “You’ve read every book in your possession at least three times over.”

“That isn’t true,” Aziraphale said. “Some of them are too precious to risk damaging. Ancient works, Crowley. Delicate manuscripts.”

“You should just give some of them up to a museum or something,” Crowley said. “Eventually someone in Hell is going to ask why half of your miracles are book restorations.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Aziraphale gasped. “Do you think a museum would take half as good care of my books as I do? No, no, I’ll just keep keeping them in my shop. It’s a lovely shop.”

“I’ve seen it,” Crowley said. “It’s a small shop. You’re going to run out of room.”

“Well, then I’ll get a bigger shop.” Aziraphale said. “Why, my dear, we could even be business partners!”

“But you don’t sell anything,” Crowley reminded him.

“So?” Aziraphale smiled.

“I’ll think about it,” Crowley said.

* * *

“I’m getting tired of war,” Crowley said. It was only the eighteenth century.

“I daresay it was already stale after the first time,” Aziraphale said, draining his drink.

* * *

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley said slowly. He was feeling rather exhausted. Angels, of course, did not _need_ to sleep, but it was a good way to pass the time. Aziraphale had his books, and Crowley had his bed.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale was trying to restore some kind of stone tablet to legibility, and he did not look up from his task.

“If I left for a while, could you—” No, that wasn’t the right question; Crowley knew Aziraphale _could._ “Would you do my job for me while I was gone?”

“I…” Aziraphale’s hands stilled. “I believe that’s part of the Arrangement, yes. Where are you going?”

“To bed,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked at him.

“To bed,” he echoed. “For how long?”

“I dunno.” Crowley shrugged. “Until I feel like getting up, I guess.”

If this were a conversation with anyone else, Crowley’s request probably would’ve sounded slothful. But Aziraphale was perhaps the only being besides God Herself capable of understanding what he meant, how much he _didn’t_ want to be up right then.

“Well, alright,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll wake you up if something interesting happens.”

“Thanks, you’re an angel,” Crowley said, and the impact didn’t even hit him until 1832, when he had to face reality long enough to go to the lavatory. Five minutes later, he sank back into bed flushed with embarrassment.

* * *

Aziraphale had a very lively nineteenth century. Doing Crowley’s job for him really didn’t take much extra effort, for humans did most of the work for both of them, anyway. The only hiccup came in 1850 when he realized he was going to have to forge Crowley’s signature if he didn’t want the midcentury report he was falsifying to get flagged. Fortunately, he had always had a careful hand.

In his frankly ridiculous amount of free time, Aziraphale decided to get creative. Oh, he tended to his books, of course. And so many great new works were published over the course of the century. But Aziraphale didn’t just stay inside reading. He got out. He met people. He made friends with Oscar Wilde, a literary genius. He learned a dance called the gavotte. And he was utterly unsatisfied with it all.

* * *

“Are you there, God? It’s me, Aziraphale. You know, one of the angels you kicked out? Oh, not that I’m bitter about it. Not as much as the others, anyway.” He sighed. “No, really, I _do_ understand. We were getting too close to your shop. Kids these days have no respect for the posted hours, do they? And I know it’s hard to be a writer. Truly, I do. I tried my hand at writing a novel myself, and it didn’t go anywhere. Halfway through I realized the protagonist was entirely unlikable, the subplot was overtaking the main plot, and what I thought was an original love interest was actually just Crowley with a different hair color. So I understand what your job entails, and I’m not _demanding_ anything here; I’m just _asking_ you to be a dear and _pick up the pace!_ "

If anyone had been inside his bookshop, they would have been terrified. But nobody was there, because it was one o’clock in the morning, the only hour A.Z. Fell & Co. was open Monday through Friday.

“You are dragging this out longer than a Charles Dickens novel, and the man, while admittedly quite skilled despite his sentimentality, was clearly getting paid by the word!” Aziraphale threw his hands into the air frustratedly. "Nobody likes filler, you know! You’re the Almighty! Just _make_ the next part of the plot happen! Please?”

* * *

The tension was thick. A war was inevitable, the people were all saying. A war would be good, they were all saying. They needed to break the tension, get it over with. And not one of them understood that there were factors that would send everything spiraling out of control.

“Thank you, God,” a demon whispered.

* * *

Crowley woke up to a feeling like sunlight washing over him. This was odd primarily because he knew he didn’t have windows in his room.

Then he opened his eyes and saw Aziraphale, and nothing else seemed important.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing a finger towards Aziraphale.

“Dear boy, that is my face,” Aziraphale said. “I know it’s been some time, but—”

“Not _that,_ ” Crowley said. “That!”

He surged forward, pulling the brown-tinted glasses off of Aziraphale’s head.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “That is, technically, a treatment for my syphilis. Which I do not have, of course, but these days one has difficulty explaining away snake eyes, while pretending to be a nice young gentleman with an unfortunate condition is quite simple.”

“Yeah, well you look terrible in them,” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and bright as the moon. Crowley loved the moon. He helped put space together, after all. “Can’t you just do a miracle so people don’t notice anything’s off?”

“I’ve had to be a bit more strategic with my miracles lately,” Aziraphale said. “Since I had to do a little more Good than usual.”

“Oh…” Crowley grimaces. “God, I’m sorry.”

“I doubt She’s terribly upset,” Aziraphale said. “Everything has been calm. Until now, that is. I had to wake you, my dear, for I’m afraid it would be impossible to keep pulling double duty.”

“Ugh… How long has it been?” Crowley asked. 

“A century,” Aziraphale said. 

“Not too bad for a nap,” Crowley said.

“Not too bad at all,” Aziraphale agreed. “... Do you feel better?”

Crowley thought about it. He thought he could probably sleep for a few more years, but getting up now wasn’t that upsetting. And he still felt pleasantly warm, awash in love like he hadn’t felt in… well, a century.

Just what had Aziraphale done while he wasn’t around? To make him feel this so strongly?

 _Demons do feel love,_ he wanted to tell Heaven. He didn’t think they would believe him, though.

“Yeah, I’m great,” Crowley said. “Did you miss me?”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “I simply don’t know how I’m going to explain everything. Humans do so much in a hundred years. Literature _alone_ has come so far. And oh, all the arts, really!”

Of course. Aziraphale loved the world so much.

“You know what, I think these suit _me,_ ” Crowley said, and he put Aziraphale’s glasses over his own eyes. All the better that Aziraphale wouldn’t see the adoration there.

“People are going to think you’ve been having reckless sexual intercourse,” Aziraphale said.

“Well I haven’t been, so that’s not my problem,” Crowley said dismissively. “Now, what were you saying about the arts?”

* * *

“By the way, Gabriel thinks you know the gavotte,” Aziraphale said.

“The _what?_ ” Crowley asked.

“The gavotte,” Aziraphale repeated. “It’s a dance. I’ll teach you.”

“And why does Gabriel think I know it?” Crowley asked warily.

“I reported that you were doing fewer miracles because you were busy learning the gavotte,” Aziraphale said.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley groaned.

“He won’t understand what it is!” Aziraphale pointed out, and correctly at that.

* * *

It was going to be the war to end all wars.

Crowley wished he could believe that.

“I just want them to stop!” he screamed.

“So do I, my dear,” Aziraphale said quietly.

It was 1914. It was Christmas. And the fighting slowed to a halt.

They weren’t sure whose miracle it was, or if it was even a miracle at all. It didn’t last long, anyway.

* * *

“I could have let you sleep,” Aziraphale murmured into his wine. “But oh, my dear… My dearest…”

Crowley had to strain to hear the demon, but he felt like he got the gist.

“I would have been mad,” Crowley said. “This isn’t the kind of thing you go through alone. Even the humans have each other.”

“Yes, but,” Aziraphale said. “It’s worse for you. It hurts more. Because inside, you’re purely Good.”

Crowley froze. Then, slowly, he scowled.

“Hang on, I thought we went over this before,” he said. “This Good and Evil thing being just sides. You remember? You were the one who explained it!”

“I might remember something like that,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah, well now it’s my turn to explain it,” Crowley said. “It’s like this, right. You’ve got the English over here—” He gestured broadly to his left. “And you’ve got the Germans over here—” He gestured broadly to his right. “And oh, sure, they’re wearing different uniforms, and they’re saying different things, but look closer.”

“They’re humans,” Aziraphale said.

“Exactly!” Crowley said. “They’re all humans. And the only difference is where they’re from. And yeah, their countries do things differently and stand for different things. But you think those soldiers care about anything but going home? You think it matters whether they’re English or German? They’re all hurting!”

“Are you…” Aziraphale looked straight at him. “Are you saying that Good and Evil are like nationalities?”

“Yeah, that’s it!” Crowley said like he’d just figured out all of life’s mysteries. “So don’t act like I’m only upset because I’m Good. You think the archangels up in Heaven are weeping right now? It’s just you and me, Aziraphale. Mourning for the world we love.”

“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale sighed. “I do adore this place. I hope the humans don’t destroy all their own work.”

“Well, we do have _some_ influence,” Crowley said. “Being ethereal beings and all.”

“I’m not ethereal,” Aziraphale said. “Demons aren’t ethereal. We’re occult.”

“It doesn’t actually make a difference, does it?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, well, I suppose it doesn’t,” Aziraphale said.

* * *

“I can’t believe they’re doing it again! It’s barely been two decades!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“So much for the war to end all wars,” Crowley muttered.

* * *

“Let me get this straight,” Crowley said. “You _know_ you’re being double-crossed by the Nazis.”

“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed. “I know what deceit looks like,”

“Yeah, okay,” Crowley said. “So then— Why, exactly, are you _going?_ ”

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale smiled, snapping his fingers.

A shotgun materialized into his arms.

“Aziraphale—” Crowley began.

“The war will be over sooner this way,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t worry, my dear. My side has already staked a claim on his soul.”

* * *

“Well, they’ve made their peace now,” Aziraphale said. “In theory.”

“Papers have been signed,” Crowley agreed. “I had to miracle a few men’s mouths shut, but things definitely were signed.”

“You look very tired,” Aziraphale said. “Are you going to take another nap?”

“Nah.” Crowley shrugged. “I’ll miss too much. Things are moving faster than they used to. And besides…”

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted.

“If I go to sleep, you’ll go back to wearing those stupid glasses of yours,” Crowley said, grinning. “They’re in style these days, you know. All the movie stars wear them. It doesn’t scream ‘I have syphilis’ anymore.”

“Then what’s the problem with me wearing them?” Aziraphale asked.

“You’re too old-fashioned,” Crowley said. “You look like you walked right out of an illustrated edition of _The Picture of Dorian Gray._ ”

“Oh, so you _did_ read it!” Aziraphale exclaimed happily.

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley waved his hand dismissively.

* * *

“They say too much TV is bad for your eyesight,” Aziraphale said.

“It’s okay. I’m wearing sunglasses,” Crowley said. “Just shut up and watch the movie.”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment.

“The book was better,” he said.

* * *

A tear rolled down Crowley’s cheek. It just wasn’t fair.

“Why…?” he whispered. “What am I doing wrong? This is the third time I’ve watched you die this week!”

He quickly miracled his peace lily back to life. He had heard on the radio that talking to plants was supposed to be healthy for both the plants and people involved, but it didn’t seem to be doing _him_ any good.

“Yeah, maybe this was a stupid idea,” he muttered to the newly revived plant. “Didn’t work out so great last time I had a garden, either. Except, well, it kind of did for me. But for the humans…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly came from the door. “Am I interrupting something?”

Crowley quickly jumped away from his plant.

“Aziraphale,” he greeted nervously. “Funny you should stop by. I was just, er—”

“Crowley, we need to talk,” Aziraphale said. “You can’t keep going on like this. All of your miracles—”

“Not _all_ of them,” Crowley said. “Yesterday I stopped a boy’s football from flying into a neighbor’s window. Saved the ball and the window. And saved the boy from getting an earful, I bet. Three birds with one stone.”

“ _Most_ of your miracles,” Aziraphale corrected, “have been plant revival. Someone is going to notice, my dear. Do you want Gabriel to find out? They’ll make you go back to Heaven and then there will be no one to stop me from converting people to my new Oscar Wilde-centered religion.”

“Gabriel won’t find out,” Crowley said. “Heaven is busy right now. They’re industrializing.”

“You can’t count on that taking an eternity,” Aziraphale said. “Listen to me—”

“I can’t give up on the plants, Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted. “I can’t. They didn’t do anything wrong!”

Aziraphale grabbed his shoulder.

“Listen to me,” the demon said. “There’s something I want you to try.”

Slowly, he pressed a book into Crowley’s hands. It was a book about gardening. For beginners.

“This is—” Crowley scowled. “This is nonfiction.”

“It will _help_ you,” Aziraphale said kindly.

“I’ll think about it,” Crowley muttered.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale began.

“I _said_ I’ll think about it,” Crowley repeated.

* * *

“Okay,” Crowley glared at his plants. “Why didn’t any of you _tell_ me you didn’t need water three times a day?”

The plants said nothing

“Look—” Crowley sighed. “I’m not _mad,_ just— Just disappointed.”

Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He just didn’t want them to be thirsty. He didn’t know it would drown them.

The plants quivered remorsefully.

* * *

“My dear, they look beautiful!” Aziraphale said the next time he dropped by. “And… No more miracles, right?”

“No more miracles,” Crowley agreed. “Just the fear of what I’ll do if they cross me.”

He didn’t mention what he’d do, but the plants knew. They hated to see him cry.

* * *

It was a foggy night. It was also dark, but that was sort of a given.

A figure suddenly appeared in the middle of a graveyard.

“Terribly sorry, lads,” Aziraphale said. “Couldn’t get off work. You know how it is. Always someone trying to _purchase_ my wares. Then the tea was almost ready, and— Oh, would you care for a cup?”

Hastur and Ligur were dukes of Hell, and they absolutely did not understand why _they_ had to deal with this.

“ _Now_ we art all here,” Hastur said. “We must recount the Deeds of the Day—”

“Oh, must we?” Aziraphale interrupted. “Now, I know spry young demons like yourselves are quite capable of stirring up all kinds of commotions. And I think you’ll find that I’ve always filed timely notice of all performed miracles with Dagon in the Department of Files—”

“Zira,” Ligur said warningly.

But Hastur, who was gleeful at the thought of this being someone else’s problem, decided to move on.

“You know what you’re here for, right?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not, dear boy,” Aziraphale said.

Hastur reached down behind a tombstone.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, my.”

“Yes.” Hastur grinned.

“Surely it isn’t time already,” Aziraphale said. “I thought we’d have a few more millennia, at least. Is everything really ready?”

“You sayin’ you think this one’s not ready?” Hastur asked, pushing the infant Antichrist forward.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said. He cradled the baby to his chest. “Oh, no, no. You’re just a darling, aren’t you? Oh, you don’t know anything yet, do you? Innocent little one.”

“Are you sure the boss said to give it to _this_ one?” Ligur hissed to Hastur under his breath.

“Yeah,” Hastur hissed back. “Zira and Satan go _way_ back. Used to be friends before the Fall. But I don’t think the boss knows what’s become of him now.”

“Well, dears, are we done here?” Aziraphale asked. “Because I can just take the baby and go—”

“No,” Hastur said. He pulled out a clipboard. “You have to sign.”

“Oh, quite right,” Aziraphale said, producing a fancy quill pen. It was his ninth favorite pen. “There you are.”

Hastur peered down at the paper with narrowed eyes.

“ _No,_ ” he said. “What kind of blessed sigil is _that?_ ”

“Oops,” Aziraphale said. 

He drew another sigil next to his first. It was almost the same, only it had two fewer squiggles. It glowed red for an instant and then faded.

Hastur shot Aziraphale another glare, but he put the clipboard away.

“You will receive instructions,” he said. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what we would put you through if anything were to happen to the boss’s son.”

“No, no, I’m good, dear boy,” Aziraphale said. “See you— Ah, well…”

“When our moment of eternal triumph comes?” Hastur suggested.

“Ah, perhaps,” Aziraphale said.

* * *

Aziraphale knew what he was supposed to do. He knew it with the sudden, cold certainty of someone who had just had knowledge delivered directly into his head. From Satan, of course, not God. God didn’t like to talk to anyone.

Aziraphale had something to say to Her, though.

“I have to tell you that I don’t think this story is going anywhere good,” he said. “Now, I know we’ve known about this apocalypse thing since the Book of Revelation, and there’s been quite a bit of foreshadowing, but really now. Really, it’s going to be an absolute flop if you end it like this. Nobody wants to see everyone die at the end. Not like this, anyway. There’s nothing poignant to it. It’s a deus ex machina, my dear, quite literally. I know I’ve been on your case several times about the blessed ineffable Plan, but really, truly, I only want—”

Aziraphale paused. The infant Antichrist cried, and the demon cradled him closer.

“I’m not going to help you write an awful story,” he said.

He was, indeed, Evil. But he rather liked Crowley’s analogy to nationality. Just because he was Evil and automatically enlisted in Evil’s army didn’t mean he had to fight for it. He could always desert.

He looked back down at the Antichrist. The poor thing was still too young to make his own decisions. If he grew up as an Evil pawn, he would never get to. But if he grew up human, grew up English or German (or Chinese or American or any of the other classifications humans decided on amongst themselves) rather than Good or Evil, then…

“You have to admit it’s more compelling,” Aziraphale told God. “Gives quite a bit more impact to Good or Evil winning.”

Of course, if he had anything to say about it, neither would. He didn’t Fall just to sit back and _not_ criticize God’s manuscript.

* * *

“ _Already?_ ” Crowley asked. “I— I thought we’d have more time.”

He probably wouldn’t have slept for a whole century if he’d known how few were left. 

“We might get more,” Aziraphale said. 

“What, a few years while he learns to talk?” Crowley asked. ““The Antichrist is already here!”

Aziraphale had never gotten around to explaining his theory of ineffability to the angel. It simply had never come up, at least not at any opportune moment. He wondered if he ought to try. The trouble was, God didn’t like you questioning Her work, and Crowley most certainly did not want to Fall. Aziraphale thought the effort might not be worth the result.

“You know how we’ve spoken quite a bit about free will?” he said instead. “What if the Antichrist had it?”

“Wait—” Crowey said. “But he’s—”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. “He’s not human, but neither are we. And I daresay we’ve exercised a fair bit of free will in our lives, whether or not we ought to have.”

“Er,” Crowley said. “I guess that’s true.”

“Besides, my dear,” Aziraphale continued. “Can you truly tell the difference between him and a normal human at this point?”

“No,” Crowley admitted. 

“With a little guidance, he’ll come to love the world,” Aziraphale said. “Just like the humans. Just like us.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, smiling.

Then, suddenly, his face fell.

“Aziraphale, wait!” he exclaimed. “We don’t know anything about childcare!”

“Ah, well.” Aziraphale said. “We’ll learn. How hard could it be?”

* * *

“Children are so cruel,” Aziraphale complained.

“Warlock’s right, though,” Crowley said. “Paradise Lost has _nothing_ on Transformers.”

* * *

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale, I thought I just heard you say you _misplaced the Antichrist,_ ” Crowley said. He whipped off his sunglasses. “I must have misheard you. You want to run that by me again?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. “But I don’t see how taking your sunglasses off is going to help you _hear_ me—”

“ _Aziraphale,_ ” Crowley said.

“Well,” Aziraphale huffed. “You couldn’t tell him from a regular human, either!”

* * *

“I don’t see why it matters what is written,” Adam said to all the hosts of Heaven and Hell. “Not when it’s about people. It can always be crossed out.”

Aziraphale smiled. Sometimes it hurt to cross out a good effort, but otherwise you might end up with something like _The Importance of Telling the Truth When You Feel Like Maybe It Might Be About Time You Did_ instead of _The Importance of Being Earnest,_ and that would really deprive the world of a masterpiece.

* * *

“This whole thing’s got me thinking too much,” Crowley said. It was a nice day at the park and he shouldn’t have had a headache, but he did. “This whole ineffable Plan business. If foiling the _Great_ Plan was part of the _ineffable_ plan, then what _is_ the ineffable Plan? There’s going to be an End at some point, right? Some great, but not Great, plan for all the creatures She loves, right? If She didn’t want us here, we wouldn’t be here, all right. So why _are_ we here? Good God, I’m turning into a damn philosopher.”

“Would you like to hear my theory?” Aziraphale asked. “Oh, not about ineffability. You wouldn’t like it. But I could tell you what I think of the Great Plan.”

“Sure, go for it,” Crowley said.

“I think that six thousand years ago, the Great Plan was a very sensible ending based on what had already happened,” Aziraphale said. “But at this point, it just wouldn’t make sense, narratively speaking. The world’s too different now. Heaven and Hell are just competing companies. Good and Evil don’t matter nearly as much as kindness and cruelty. Any good author would have to rework their draft.”

“So it all comes down to books with you,” Crowley said. “I should have guessed.”

They strolled for a while. It really was an idyllic kind of day. The world had suddenly lost a lot of tension. Crowley just couldn’t tell, because he was as tense as ever.

“You know,” the angel said after a while. “It would be so easy for me to Fall. Not Fall, really— More like Jump. And I don’t think it would make that much of a difference, besides changing who I have to send all these stupid reports to.”

“They would certainly stop calling you ‘Coriel’ if you Fell. Or Jumped,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Crowley said. “But I don’t want to. I have all these questions in my head about just what God thinks She’s doing, but— But the thing is, I’ve gone so long without answers that I don’t think I’d want Her to tell me even if I asked.”

“She wouldn’t tell you, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “You know I don’t _know_ the plan, don’t you? I just have my suspicions.”

“Yeah, I know. She’d just kick me out,” Crowley said. “If you’re going to live in Her house you’ve got to let Her do Her work. I’ll see it when it’s done, I guess. I think we all will. But until then, I’ll just can these questions until the real End. I mean, if anyone understood the plan, it wouldn’t be— Be, er—”

INEFFABLE, said a tall figure feeding the ducks by the pond behind him.

“Yeah. Right. Thanks.” Crowley’s headache was starting to recede. By the time the figure stalked away, it had gone away entirely.

“What was I saying?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “Nothing very important, I think. Something about jumping into the pond.”

“Now why the hell would I do that?” Crowley asked. “Let’s just get lunch. You want to go to the Ritz? It’s my turn to pay.”

So they went to the Ritz, where a table was mysteriously vacant. And perhaps the recent exertions had some fallout in the nature of reality because, while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

* * *

And the Lord spake unto the Antichrist, saying That is a sweet ending, but might I add something more?

And the Antichrist said, Uh-huh.

* * *

“Wait, since when do we come to the park at night?” Crowley asked, miracling himself sober.

“We really must have had too much wine this time,” Aziraphale agreed, following suit.

“Let’s go—” Crowley began, but then Aziraphale turned and looked at him in the moonlight. 

Crowley yanked off his sunglasses in an instant.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale asked. His white hair and silver eyes shone like stars.

Crowley knew with a sudden, warm certainty that he had a choice to make, and if he didn’t pick the one he wanted _now,_ it would be another one or two thousand years before he’d work up the nerve to try again.

“Aziraphale,” he said quietly. “We did a lot to try to save the world, didn’t we?”

“We did,” Aziraphale said. “More than I can wrap my mind around, I think.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “You love the world, I love the world, we’d both fight Heaven and Hell just for a chance that the world could last one more day...”

“My dear, that’s unquestionable,” Aziraphale said.

“I know exactly how much you love the world,” Crowley said. “Because I can feel it. Ethereal ability, you know? And I love it just as much, measure-for-measure with you.”

“I know.” Aziraphale smiled. “I can’t feel it the way you do, but I know.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley said hesitantly. _This_ was where he had to choose, he could tell. 

He took a deep breath.

“Imagine all that,” he said. “And then imagine that it consumed you to the core. That it eclipsed anything else you could ever feel. That you’d outright abandon the world if you had to, as long as you got to keep _this._ Because that’s how I feel about you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looked at him, wide-eyed and awestruck.

“ _Oh,_ Aziraphale said. “Oh, Crowley, I…”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s face into his hands.

“I would trade the whole world for a second of your time,” he said.

Then, finally, they shared the kiss that was six thousand years in the making.

“My dearest,” Aziraphale whispered, and he saw Crowley smile.

“My angel,” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale kissed him again.

* * *

_The end, but not the End_


End file.
